


A Pair of Parenthesis

by 4RU



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4RU/pseuds/4RU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You just can't have one without the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pair of Parenthesis

Social events are a necessity. A painful, boring necessity. There’s a mechanical pattern to the lot, one involving routine prayer, droning through speeches, more prayer, a fine dinner, and elegant dancing. You’d rather not be there, but you must. Father Comstock has, albeit politely, insisted on your presence. Why shouldn’t you go, he had said, when it was your intuition that saw Columbia’s very creation? Intuition. The word left a bad taste in your mouth, a mixture as bitter as citrus and mint. It wasn’t intuition that saw Columbia to the skies, but careful manipulation of suspended particles.

That had once been the magnum opus of your career. Now it was a footnote. One that wasn’t truly appreciated. How could they? Columbia was either populated by Old Money who hadn’t a shred of appreciation for the sciences, or the lowly workers easily brainwashed into thinking they were better off several thousand feet above the ground than on it. For them, there were more important things to focus on. And for you, all you could bring to occupy your thoughts was the machine back in the workspace and how at that very moment it was likely spitting out a reply from a person you couldn’t see, while you were stuck at some silly event for the bourgeois of Columbia’s finest.

To say you didn’t much care for the politics would be an understatement. Your place in the tangle of propriety is up for debate; you don’t belong with the women due to the fact that you are unmarried and not tending to noisy children, and you do not belong with the men for the simple fact that you lack a single chromosome. Even more scandalous is the fact that you have no desire to rectify the problem (the unwed problem) and have publicly stated such despite Father Comstock’s not-so-subtle biblical quotes. Why should you want for a husband? So the man can lay claim to your work and life? So you can be used as little more than a broodmare? Childbirth was far too dangerous as it was, and you’re not about to stake your life on a low percent chance of survival through the ordeal. You are getting older every day and there are still a great many things to be accomplished. If it is selfish to wish for nothing more than your funds and science, then so be it. You can endure the scathing remarks and glances, the gossip, the rumors. Let them. You have more important things to do.

Yet, somewhere down the line, you craved companionship. Loneliness had snuck upon you, instilling a desire for someone who might understand. Friendship is a foreign concept to you, and one you had dismissed long ago in favor of more practical pursuits. In a sense, that had been the reason you began construction on the machine. Not the only reason, but one of many. What better companion could you find than yourself? And sure enough, you had found that other Rosalind Lutece, and have been communicating with her sense. A low, arduous process, but one that yielded results. You had reached through your realities and formed a simple method of communication, and she had followed your lead, had offered insights and theory that you would have never thought of. You worked together, oh so slowly striving towards the goal of bridging the gap between your worlds.

And she had probably sent a message to your greatest question yet while you were stuck entertaining the notion of not having better things to do with your time. You were murmuring along to a prayer to a god that didn’t exist, head bowed over dinner while Comstock droned on and on about blessings and miracles. A waste. A stupid, irrational waste of time. And you had so precious little of it left. Another hour gone. You leave the moment the men begin coaxing their ladies into a dance, pretending not to hear the derisive comments about your lack of partner or ability to dance.

Back at your home, just as you had hoped, the machine had been flicked on and of in a series. Morse code. Excitement bubbles within your gut, easing away the stress of Comstock’s party. You locate a pen and scrap of paper, almost breaking the nub as you hastily translate the other Rosalind’s cipher.

_I will come._

_R. Lutece_

Relief washes through your body, powerful enough that you find yourself easing down into a chair least you collapse from the force of it. If you find yourself surprised at your own pleasure for the turn of events, you bite it down quickly. They’re waiting for a reply, and you need to go over the details of Comstock’s plan. Not that the plan truly involves them coming through a tear, but Comstock wouldn’t care much for that detail as long as he gets what he wants. You’ll send the response in the morning; it will be lengthy, and you desire a bath and good night of rest first.


End file.
